


how many roads, how many seas

by mishcollin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9.11 Coda, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:10:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2567726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas starts driving, and once he starts, he doesn't stop. (A 9.11 coda.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	how many roads, how many seas

**Author's Note:**

> I, uh...actually wrote this fic back in January, so it's nothing new, I just realized it wasn't on my ao3 for various and now irrelevant personal reasons. ;a; Title is from Bob Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone."

He starts driving, and once he starts, he doesn’t stop. He wires his right foot to the pedal and winds through towns without maps, keeps pushing until the double gold bars in the center of the road blur into one long, non-ending stripe. He drives mostly to escape the weight of his wings, or what once was them, skeletal tatters folded painfully against his back; when he’s driving, he can pretend he forgets them, somehow.

He texts Dean one afternoon when he stops for gas, and squints out through the heat baking off the surrounding Iowa fields, the corn making the hot air almost sweet to the taste. He debates on what to say, the best way to reach out through the radio silence to Dean, but he settles with a simple,  _Where are you?_

He doesn’t expect an answer and is surprised when, once he climbs back into the car, his phone lights up with a message that reads,  _No_

Cas suppresses an urge to roll his eyes and texts back,  _Can I come to you?_

The response, two minutes later and a quiet chirp in the stifling, musty-smelling heat of the car, reads, _No_

Cas bites down slowly on his lip, vacillates on what to say, before he types out,  _Please come back_ _,_ and hits send.

Dean’s reply comes quicker than he was expecting, and just as sharply.  _Don’t._

  _—-_

Cas loses track of time when he’s on the road. He thinks he must’ve been traveling for a good two weeks now, but the days and the nights intersect into an indecipherable blur. The only indicator of time passing is the direction in which the light slants on the road, and whether it comes from the sky or from his headlights.

He thinks, once, that this is probably cowardly, all things considered. Running, escaping. He imagines that he was ascribed to…more, than whatever this is.

But he isn’t quite certain he knows how or where to stop.

He stays the nights either in the backseat under a ratty blanket, on the shoulder of the interstate and under a tapestry of Nebraska sky, or in run-down motels in tiny, rural towns, exchanging quiet words with nameless others that he’ll never encounter again. He texts Dean the addresses of all the places he stays, but never receives replies, and tells himself dully that Dean is busy. Hunting Abaddon, hunting Gadreel. Surely it’s something.

It certainly gives him a lot of time to think. Or to not think. He isn’t quite sure which is worse; being lost in his own mind, or being locked outside it. He knows surely that he must know all the music on the radio by now, from Bob Dylan to Kesha to Creedence Clearwater Revival. He wonders if Dean would be proud of him, knowing all those songs now.

—-

He stops in a small town in the center of Missouri, and finds himself rather reluctantly in a small, air-conditioned diner. He now smells permanently like the dust from the highway, and he lets his bones ache with the rattle of the road when he drops into one of the counter stools. It allows him to pretend that he’s nothing more than this, a stranger in a speck on a map.

He orders a coffee and a cheeseburger, but the waitress hesitates before clocking his order.

"Where have you been,  _caballero?_ " she asks, taking him off-guard.

"Beg pardon?"

She is a middle-aged heavyset woman, Latina and beautiful with age despite the soft wrinkles crowded in the corners of her eyes and lips. Her dark eyes are misty-looking and sad, and silver streaks her dark coarse hair. “ _¿Cuál es tu historia?_ ”

“ _No tengo ninguna,_ " Cas lies, and the woman smiles briefly in satisfaction.

"You have a story."

"How do you know?"

"Your eyes," she replies in a kind, raspy voice. "You’ve got those eyes that look like they’ve traveled a thousand miles."

"I have miles to go before I sleep," Cas quotes with a soft smile.

"How many more will you go?" the woman asks.

He hesitates, contemplating, before he says, “Until the road runs out.”

"That," the woman responds, "is a very long journey. It sounds very lonely."

"I’ve been lonely a very long time." Cas shrugs, and reaches for the coffee she extends to him. "I don’t know any different, I suppose."

“ _Mientes,_ " the woman says with a soft smile. "There is someone who loves you very much."

Cas doesn’t say anything for the rest of the time; he drinks his coffee in silence and watches his hands shake for some unknown reason.

—-

Cas checks into a motel for the night, one that he can afford, and he hasn’t set down his bags for more than a moment when someone knocks on the door.

 _Room service,_ Cas thinks in irritation. He’d thought the bed had looked unmade.

He swings open the door with a loud creak, and finds his hands locking up in shock at the sight of Dean on the other side. It doesn’t even quite look like  _Dean;_ he sports a full beard now, uneven bristles on his cheeks, and bruise-like circles hang under his eyes. His eyes are dark and unfathomable, angry-looking to anyone who doesn’t know him, but a soft smile warms them at the sight of Cas (slack-jawed, he’d add) in the doorway.

"Surprised?"

"Er," Cas says, scrambling for the right thing to say. "Yes."

There’s a strange moment that transpires between them, as if something significant is supposed to happen—an embrace, an exclamation of joy, or something. They stare at each other, caught in the current of an odd, unfamiliar formality that settles over them.

"So," Dean says, a bit more stiffly, "can I, uh, come in?"

"Of course," Cas says a bit mechanically, stepping aside. It takes him a moment to realize his heart is racing in his ears, making his palms moist. 

"So where’ve you been?" Dean asks, and Cas’ heart gives another funny jerk when Dean sets his bags down, as if with the intention of staying. 

"I’ve been lots of places," Cas answers, shutting the door behind him.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I know you have, Cas. I mean, where have you been specifically the last few weeks?”

"I’ve texted you addresses."

“ _Why,_ though,” Dean implores, fixing him with a curious, almost hostile gaze. “I would’ve thought you’d stay at the bunker with Sam. I mean…what have you been  _doing_?”

"Driving," Cas replies. "Running."  _To you._

"Running from?" Dean prompts, looking surprised. "That ain’t like you, Cas."

"Everything," he murmurs, and takes a moment to sit on the floor. Dean follows suit. "I want…." Cas hesitates, struggling to find the right words. He’s slightly surprised, how a month without interaction with Dean makes it hard to find the words to say to him. "I want to live."

"You’re afraid of dying?"

"No," Cas says quickly. "I know that I’ll die, probably very soon."

Dean’s gaze sharpens, twice as belligerent. “Cas—”

"I want to live before I die, you see?" Cas continues, ignoring him. "I, for the most part, didn’t enjoy my time as a human, and I’m…trying to make up for that, I suppose."

Dean stares at him for a long moment before he wearily rubs his hands over his face. “Okay. I mean, if that’s what you want.”

Cas knows what he wants, and knows even more that it’s a futile desire.

Dean sighs, his face still buried in his palms, and Cas takes this moment to drink his fill, rake his eyes over the way Dean’s shoulders curve inward, like a man defeated, the way his fingers twitch intermittently, like Cas’ had when he hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

"Would you like a massage?" Cas asks.

Dean snaps his head up, looking startled. “Uh…what?”

"Would you like a massage?" Cas repeats. "I read a book of spiritual healing techniques when I was staying in the bunker, and I was surprised by how simple many of the methods are. Massage, though it sounds ineffective, is an ancient multi-cultural practice that relaxes the body as well as the mind, and you look…" Cas peers at him, past the layers of skin and bone to the soft, wounded ebb and flow of Dean in the central atrium of his ribs. It pains him, to see Dean aching in so many ways. "You look like shit, Dean."

Dean laughs humorlessly and shakes his head. “Yeah, you can say that again.”

"You look like—"

"Yeah, okay. Massage me or whatever, okay? But clothes are staying on."

Cas gives him such an insulted look that Dean laughs with actual mirth, and it makes him seem warm all over, in a worn, fond way.

"Seriously, get over here. I’m about to fall asleep."

Cas quickly scoots over so that he’s seated cross-legged behind Dean, staring at the soft rise and fall of his shoulders and entirely unsure of how to start. He tentatively cups his hands on the slopes of Dean’s shoulders, and Dean tenses at his touch, like he’s fighting not to flinch away.

Cas moves his thumbs to the two knots of muscle between Dean’s shoulder-blades and pushes inward, digging into the tight stiffness there, and Dean groans softly, a throaty hum that thrums under Cas’ hands and sends electricity up his arms.

Encouraged, Cas kneads his thumbs up the curves of his shoulder-blades, watching in fascination the way Dean rocks slightly into his touch, his eyes closed as if in some deep exhaustion or bliss.

"Damn, you’re good at this," he says after a few moments of surprisingly comfortable silence. "I think you found your calling, Cas."

"About time," Cas mutters, and Dean chuckles, low and warm in his throat.

"Mm," Dean hums when Cas massages his heel along the path of his spine. "Missed you, Cas."

Cas for a moment is too stunned to assemble a reply, because Dean almost never says things like this to him anymore, before he says, carefully, “I missed you too, Dean.”

"Did you?"

Cas frowns. “Of course.”

"Hmm."

"You, as usual, underestimate your effect on people."

"If there’s anything that’s not a problem with me," Dean says, bitterly, "it’s understanding the  _effect_ I have on people.”

"Stop," Cas murmurs, massaging along the top slopes of his shoulders.

It’s very quiet for several moments, the ticking of the clock and the occasional rumble of a car on the road nearly obtrusive.

"I’m going back," Dean says after another moment, quietly into the growing darkness of the room.

"Back home?" Cas is unable to stop his quick and hopeful reply, and finds himself perversely embarrassed by his own eagerness.

"No," Dean says. "To hell."

A strong mix of panic and fury wash through Cas in quick succession, and he hears himself say, “You _won’t_ ,” through the sudden din in his ears; when Dean jerks under his hands, he realizes he must have spoken loudly. Cas takes a deep breath; Dean’s gone utterly still beneath him, relaxed demeanor replaced with armor again. “That won’t happen again, not to you.”

"Who’s gonna stop me?" Dean says with a harsh laugh. "You and Sam?"

"Yes," Cas says, alarmed. "Dean."

"You know, after I took off, I almost made a deal," Dean says, his voice rasping, and he clears his throat. "For Kevin."

Cas hisses low between his teeth, which Dean hears but doesn’t respond to.

"I should’ve made it," Dean continues. "My soul in hell for him to have the fifty more years of life he deserved."

“ _Dean,_ " Cas says sharply.

"He was just a  _kid,_ Cas,” Dean snaps, his shoulders gone rigid now. “He should’ve gone to college, gotten married—fuck, become president, I don’t know! How many other people is it gonna take for me to get killed before you and Sam realize I’m toxic?”

"Dean," Cas says again, resting his hands gently on Dean’s back; Dean twitches at the touch, but doesn’t shy away.

There’s a fissure in his voice when he speaks again, on the edge of tears. His body is shaking under Cas’ touch. “I’m better off dead than alive, and I should’ve been dead a long time ago.” His next words are accusatory, condemning. “You should’ve let me  _rot_.”

Cas is silent for many moments while Dean waits, without turning around, for a reply, perhaps a rebuttal. 

Cas wants to be angry—wants to be furious with this foolish, pig-headed man, wants to break things out of sheer frustration, but he finds nothing in him but an endless well of sadness.

Worded consolation has never worked with Dean, so Cas uncrosses his legs and inches forward so that he’s pressed against him, putting Dean within the vee of his open legs. Dean flinches in shock, as if he’d been expecting to get hit, but Cas simply rests his forehead against Dean’s shoulder-blade and aligns his hands along his spine.

"Cas?" Dean asks wildly, twisting to look at him, but he doesn’t jump away, like Cas thought he might; he leans, inversely, back into Cas, as if magnetized.

"You saved Sam," Cas says quietly, and the softness of his voice seems to crack in the silence. "You saved me. You’ve saved so many, Dean. Isn’t that enough?"

Dean is still shuddering underneath him, and Cas finds it somewhat tragic that Dean is stoic and hard as steel under blows, but falls to utter pieces under gentle touch.

"Not when those I’ve let die outweigh it," he whispers. "I…I feel like I’m going insane. Like I started going insane years ago and I’m trapped underwater. When does it end? It never  _ends._ ”

"It doesn’t end," Cas agrees. "So you keep going the best you can. You take it day by day."

"I can’t."

"You can. You have Sam, and you have me, and Charlie, and Jody, and Krissy, and Garth. You have people who love you, Dean. They’re the ones worth living for, if some days you can’t live for yourself."

"How long will it be," Dean says, his voice acidic, "before I get them killed? How many times have I gotten  _you_  killed, Cas? I mean, think about it, do the math.”

"I made my own choices. So has Sam." Cas sighs, shaking his head against Dean’s shoulder. "For God’s sake, Dean, not everything is your responsibility. You are not the world’s dumping ground."

"Driving helps," Dean says quietly, almost contemplatively. "You feel you can just keep going and going. No one gets hurt, you don’t look back."

"Yes, I know," Cas says, then asks, "Are we ever going to stop?"

"Don’t see a reason to."

"I do."

“ _Cas_.”

"Dean."

Silence falls between them, heavy with unspoken things.

"You miss Sam. You miss having a room, and hunting with your brother. You miss having a kitchen and a home. You deserve those things, Dean. Don’t deprive yourself of them for a mistake you made." Cas thinks back to the agony of purgatory, of feeling his cheeks crack open with blood under punches, and winces. "I learned that the hard way."

"Tell me one thing, Cas—why do you stick around?" Dean asks, twisting now to face him. There’s a vulnerable question in his eyes, waiting to be spoken. "Seriously, why would you—why the  _fuck_  do you keep coming back to me?”

Cas sighs and his hands slip from Dean’s back. “You and I…” Cas stares at the ugly, faded pattern in the carpet, and searches for words. “You and I are not meant to be apart. Not for long, anyway. I don’t know why.”

"What are we meant to be then?" Dean asks, then his eyes widen as if he hadn’t meant to say it.

"That feels like a loaded question," Cas replies, carefully. "I’m not sure."

"Shit," Dean says to himself, and rubs a hand over his face. "Shit. I’m way out of my depth here."

Cas raises his eyebrows and crosses his legs again.

"What am I supposed to do?" Dean asks, his eyes still rimmed with red, the skin underneath them puffy with exhaustion. "I can’t go back home, I can’t sit in the bunker all day where Kevin  _died_ and just—”

"You could start by getting a good night’s sleep," Cas points out. "Seriously, Dean, you look like you’ve been kissed by Death."

"God, I hope not," Dean mutters. "Dude’s smarmy."

"You can take the bed."

"I need to leave."

"No," Cas snaps, angrily now, "you  _don’t._ ”

Dean bites down on his lower lip, refusing to meet Cas’ gaze.

"I’m inviting you to stay. Not in the Impala, not on some back-road highway, in a motel, in a bed, with—" Cas comes to a sudden, horrified halt, his tongue tripping on the next word, but Dean catches it, of course he does, and glances up at him in shock.

Cas tries to recover. “With an actual pillow, for starters—”

"With you," Dean interrupts, still looking astonished. "You were going to say with you."

"I wasn’t."

"You were."

Cas, for the first time since reuniting with Dean, feels thoroughly flustered, and irritated with himself. He falls into an uncomfortable silence, mirrored by Dean’s uncomfortable silence, until Dean says, quietly, “I wouldn’t mind.”

"What?"

"Er, you know. Sharing a bed, or whatever. It’s, uh, been a while since I’ve bunked with anyone, and it’s not even…I’d like to…" He falters, almost shyly, and clears his throat, fiddles with the ring on his finger. "Yeah."

"You would…stay?"

Dean looks up at him again with that same unfathomable expression, haunted, sad. There’s something else, though, stirring under the surface; just out of reach, but tangible, waiting to take form. 

Cas thinks it might be hope.

"Yeah," Dean says, and his voice is soft. "I’ll stay."


End file.
